


Flu Shots

by Katzedecimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caregivers are usually taken for granted.  But when a nasty flu is felling everyone, compassion can come in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inconceivable!

_Was that the door bell?_

The thought eventually penetrated through the cotton batting that filled the head of Mycroft Holmes, elbowing its way through the thick fog to jump up and down on what little of his forebrain was actually functioning. That part became slightly more alert at the sound of a key in the lock. 

_Odd, I didn't think I'd given anyone a key._ His head felt just too thick to really feel the threat that a thought like that should have engendered. Then he remembered that he **had** given a key to someone, to the one person he trusted not to use it, ever. 

Right. Sherlock had texted him, looking for some favour, and he'd texted back to say that he was down with the flu. And what a flu. It had been over a decade since Mycroft had come down with any illness. Around the offices, he was practically legendary for his bullet-proof immunity, against which viruses railed in futility. 

Well they were certainly taking their revenge now! He tried to slip back to sleep but his stomache abruptly decided it was having none of that, and he lurched over the side of the bed to heave into Great-Grandmother's antique chamberpot he'd pressed into service. So he was a little surprised to feel a hand drop lightly onto his back and rub his shoulders. He accepted the glass of cold water to swill out his mouth, then lay back into the pillows and accepted the offer of a cool cloth for his face. "What are you doing here?" he rasped out. 

"You're sick," Sherlock said simply and offered him a hot mug, "It's ginger. Anti-emetic."

"I know that. Thank you." Mycroft took the mug and sipped, feeling the soothing spicy warmth of the decoction spread through his sore belly. He watched his brother carry the chamberpot out, then reached for his phone. 

[10:23 Mycroft Holmes] Did you put him up to this?

[10:24 JW] Put who up to what?

[10:24 Mycroft Holmes] I'm down with flu and suddenly my little brother is here acting the domestic.

[10:25 JW] Oh is that what it's about? Inspector Lestrade just phoned to complain that Sherlock had just dropped everything and run off in the middle of a case, and he's just texted to ask for my recipe for avgolemono. Sherlock, not Lestrade.  
[10:26 JW] I'm in the clinic right now. I'll pop 'round later unless you turn urgently febrile. I trust Sherlock not to panic too much. 

Mycroft put the phone down thoughtfully, then slid out of bed and pulled on his dressing down and slippers. He shuffled into the kitchen, where Sherlock was standing next to a steaming pot on the stove and cutting a lemon in half. "You ran out on a case?"

Sherlock looked up from beating lemon juice into an egg. "Mm? Mm." 

Mycroft shook his head and turned, then caught sight of the DVD cover and turned back, "Did you bring this? For heaven's sake, Sherlock, I'm not a child!" 

The worried hurt look made him regret it instantly. Of course Sherlock would have brought the movie, it's what Mummy used to do when they were sick. Then the snarky glint came into Sherlock's eyes and he snorted, "Of course you are. Didn't Mrs. Nesbitt always say that men turn into children when we're ill?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the mention of their old nanny, "You do know what Mummy used to call her? The 'wittering idiot'?" Sherlock said nothing so Mycroft wandered out to the sitting room and sat on the chesterfield. Sitting wasn't very comfortable so he tucked his feet and curled up. Much better. A minute later Sherlock came out carrying a bowl of the steaming pale yellow soup. "Thank you," he took the bowl with a thin smile then sipped. The soup was just tangy enough to stimulate the appetite, nourishing but light on a disturbed stomache. "This is good."

Sherlock grunted and put the DVD in then sat down next to him. 

"You're uncharacteristically quiet," Mycroft observed as the movie started. 

Sherlock was stared ahead for a few moments. "It seemed the best way to avoid an argument."

_Ouch. Unfortunate but true._ "I apologise in advance for infecting you. This one isn't pleasant."

Sherlock shrugged, "I'm already exposed. John's been treating cases all week. I expect he'll be next."

"Unfortunate. Do pass on my condolances."

"As you wish." Mycroft shot his brother a Look, then smiled. He saw Sherlock glance out of the corner of his eye, then the ghost of a smile curved his lips.

He fell asleep around the shrieking eels but somewhere around the fire swamp, Mycroft felt a hand press lightly against his forehead, then the backs of fingers lightly touched his cheek.


	2. As You Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't catch a break. But he can catch a flu.

John knew that he would be exposed. He'd been treating cases all week down at the clinic. He'd been coughed on and sneezed at by an endless line of children, who didn't know better, and ignorant grown-ups, who did but didn't care. Despite changing his gown with every patient and using enough sanitizer to crack his hands, he knew it was only a matter of time. 

John Watson was a practiced care-giver. Even before he'd trained in medicine, he'd grown up caring for his sister. He'd cared for his collegues when he was posted in the military. He cared for his flatmate, whose executive dysfunction issues and severe mental overclocking necessitated John's guidance. He'd never shrunk from looking after someone who needed him. And he put his heart into it, because he genuinely cared. 

He'd been feeling the scratchy sore throat, stiff shoulders and sense of weighted fatigue that heralded that incubation was complete. He flopped into his bed, absolutely certain that he was going to be as sick as a dog when he woke up in the morning. And he was absolutely certain that he would be facing it alone. Because however many people John Watson had cared for, however many sickbeds he'd nursed, nobody had ever, ever thought to care for him. 

He woke to the expected head full of throbbing thick fog and reached for his phone to text Sarah that he wouldn't be in. He frowned at the reply - 'Already notified. Get better soon, we're swamped.' _Huh? Did I phone in last night and forgot about it? Who would phone me in?_ He shrugged and pulled on his dressing gown then shuffled out to the kitchen. 

Where Sherlock was already up? John mumbled a greeting and rooted around for the kettle. "What are you after?"

"Just some weak tea," John replied. He could feel his energy draining out of him with each word and rubbed his eyes. 

When he opened them, a cup of weakened tea had been pushed in front of him. "There's farina," Sherlock offered. 

John looked at him, then looked in the pot on the stove. There was indeed farina. He gave it a stir and noticed it was exactly the right consistency that he preferred as sick food. He also noticed something else: A small pot of ginger tea simmering on the back burner. He looked back at Sherlock, "Did you phone me in?"

"Yes? I could see you were coming down with it last night, I knew you'd be full blown by morning."

"So you made farina and ginger tea?"

"Did I do it wrong?"

John gave him another look then dished up the farina and poured some of the ginger tea. He ate slowly but he knew it wouldn't yep no good. He rushed for the bathroom and fell to his knees just as his stomach decided it couldn't be having with that. He took the offered glass of water and sat back on his heels, shuddering. His head was swimming so badly, he barely noticed it as Sherlock steered him gently back to bed. 

A few hours later and John felt like he'd been run over by a truck. He groaned and rolled over then stopped. His preferred analgesics, decongestants and all-in-ones were all on the night table, next to a bottle of water and a cup of tepid ginger tea. There was a bucket next to the bed. He sat up slowly and took the pills, sipping the tea in thoughtful silence, or as much thought as could be managed by a head that felt like a tsunami was pulsing through it. He pulled his dressing gown back on and shuffled out to the kitchen to see if there was any farina left. A new pot had joined the others on the stove and he peeked in - rice porridge? He checked the fridge and frowned -- John had picked up some favorite sick foods while in Afghanistan and during his leave trips to India... Sherlock had gone out for the ingredients? He dished up the farina then shuffled out to the sitting room and collapsed onto the chesterfield, staring at Sherlock. 

"What's your sick movie?"

"My what?" John blinked. 

"What you watch when you're sick? Or do you have a book?"

John looked puzzled then shrugged, "Don't have one, really." Sherlock looked utterly bewildered at that, like he didn't know what to do. "Harry always wanted to watch _'The Muppet Show'_ " 

"We have _'The Muppet Show,'_ " Sherlock launched out of his chair towards the DVD rack.

Suddenly John did not want to be reminded of Harry. "Why, do you have one?" 

" _'The Princess Bride'_ ," Sherlock answered promptly, "Mummy watched it with us when we were sick. 'Something for everyone', she said. Mainly it was light-hearted and amusing but didn't make us laugh too hard."

"Yeah, you don't want to be laughing too hard when your stomach's doing backflips," John agreed, "Alright, we can watch it."

"But if yours is _'The Muppet Show'_..."

"No, no, I'd much rather watch _'The Princess Bride,'_ " John said quickly. He was aware of Sherlock looking at him and looked away. But Sherlock only nodded and flipped on the telly, then sat down next to him on the chesterfield. 

John wasn't aware of falling asleep but when he drifted awake, he found that he was lying down and Sherlock had tucked a blanket around him. He sighed contentedly and snuggled down. Definitely the most comfortable neckroll pillow ever, quite firm and supportive and fit under his neck perfectly. Then the Impressive Clergyman appeared and he grinned. 

"Mawwaige," they chorused along, "Mawwaige is what bwings us.. togevvah... today!" They both laughed, Sherlock's low chuckle a comforting rumble. Which was about when John realized that his comfortable neckroll was in fact Sherlock's thigh. His head was in Sherlock's lap and the soothing feeling was Sherlock petting his hair. And it was too late to do anything about it. He glanced up at the other man then looked back at the movie. 

"Am I doing something wrong?"

John glanced back again, "What?"

"Only you keep giving me these looks like I'm doing something wrong. You've been doing it since this morning." 

"Ah.. sorry," John said, then admitted, "I'm... just not used to this, I guess."

"You seemed more comfortable lying down..."

"Not this, well.. this..." John patted Sherlock's knee then waved his hand helplessly, "Just... _this._ All of this. I mean, you even went out and bought the stuff for congee and ghains."

"Is that not right? That's what you made the last time you were ill..."

"Yeah, that's just it, you **noticed.** "

"I always notice."

"Yes but you..." John flailed again then rolled onto his back so he could look up at his friend, "You.. I'm just not used to being doted on."

"I didn't think you'd mind." Sherlock looked so confused and bewildered that John couldn't suppress a giggle. He turned and briefly pressed his face against Sherlock's abdomen.

"I don't mind," he said, looking up again. "I don't mind, I'm just not used to it. No one's ever done it before." He rolled back to face the telly again. Sherlock had stopped stroking his head. John thought for a moment, then found his hand and put it back again and relaxed as the stroking resumed. 

"Why not?" 

The question was so soft and low that John wasn't sure he'd heard it at first. "I don't know," he admitted. He was silent for another moment then, just as quietly, "The reason I didn't want to watch _'The Muppet Show'_... There was once I got really sick, really badly sick... Harry had a weekend party to go to... She just wished me well and off she went. It was a bad flu, pneumonia started setting in.. I had to get myself to hospital. And when she got back, all she said was 'Oh sorry to hear about it, but you're feeling better, right.' I guess I just got to expect it." He sighed and rubbed Sherlock's knee, "Thanks for this."

"Scratchy throat, fatigue and a slight headache, right?"

John glanced up, "Coming down with it?" Sherlock nodded and John patted his knee again, "Ah well, that'll be both of us down tomorrow then. What'll we watch?"


	3. The Pit of Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An urgent text from Sherlock leads to M.H. versus M.H. in an epic showdown! .....okay not really _epic_ , per se.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had far too much fun writing this. Warning, extremely silly.

Mycroft had done his best but unlike his little brother, he wasn't able to just drop everything and leave (and he was still amazed that his little brother had actually done that. For _him._ ) It had taken some time to arrange coverage for his duties but he'd found that all he had to do was show people the image Sherlock had sent to him and that expedited everything. 

Now he opened the door of 221b and winced at the faint aromas of sweat, vomit, ginger and, unaccountably, curry. A breeze told him that the windows were open, at least. 

The sitting room was a disaster. There was an inflatable lilo on the floor and the flat's inhabitants were both flaked out upon it, bundled in blankets and using one another as pillows, like a pair of puppies. Comic books and DVD cases were spread out around them. Assorted gift baskets adorned various surfaces. And _that._

He went into the kitchen. It was even worse than Sherlock's text message had described. Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock was a brat and he frequently lost his patience with his little brother's antics, but no man should have to suffer like this. Sherlock had begged and pleaded and even promised to be good and help Mycroft the next time he called on him, no questions asked, but really, even the most hardened serial killer would come to the rescue after seeing that picture. And the picture was just the tip of a truly horrible iceberg.

"I ws'n't 'xagg'rating, w's I."

Mycroft looked into the sitting room to see Sherlock's eyes slitted open. He glanced at the DVD on the telly and felt a pang of sympathy. Still, he wouldn't be a proper big brother if he didn't poke him just a little... "Bronies, Sherlock? Really?"

Sherlock stretched and rolled over to peer at him over John's back, "It's not our fault. She took the remote away after we put on _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre._ "

Mycroft's gaze took in the bucket next to the lilo. "And you're in the phase of not being able to move without throwing up," he said sympathetically.

"If I see one more Sanrio character, I'll throw up. Again."

"I would have thought that _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ would have made you throw up. Why?"

"Was hoping it'd drive her off."

"Ah. And it is an indication of how ill you are that you forgot that she works in a mortuary and sees that kind of thing all the time."

"Uh-huh."

"You know, I wouldn't believe you if I hadn't already had it," Mycroft said, making his way over to the DVD player.

"'Fter th' n'xt S'nic Ra'nboom!"

Sherlock thumped his companion's arm, "Shut up, John."

"R'nbow D'sh 's cool!"

"Shut up. Mycroft, don't listen to him, he's delirious."

"Clearly." Mycroft snapped open the player and extracted the DVD, handling it gingerly as he might a bomb (which in his mind, it was.) As he snapped it back into its case, Sherlock sighed and collapsed theatrically against John's leg. "When did Miss Hooper arrive, that she has managed to turn your flat into the Hello Kitty House of Horror so thoroughly?" Mycroft waved his hand, taking in the unsettling amount of stickers, magnets, paper plates, serviettes, paper cups, plushies, stationary... "Oh dear, is that a Badtz Maru sticker on your laptop?"

John raised his head with the expression of the condemned, "Go look at mine."

Mycroft did. It seemed fine, then he flipped the lid down. "Good lord!"

"Sherlock doesn't think they'll come off."

"Not without a heat gun," Mycroft agreed, still horrified by the sheer number of _Little Twin Stars_ stickers, "Why did you let her do this?"

"She has extremely fast sticker-placing powers and took advantage of me while I was hurling up breakfast."

"I was still in a coma," John supplied.

"The rest of it she did after we fell asleep during _Alien._ "

"Which we put on when Donovan came over with the gift basket. Sherlock sneezed on her."

"That wasn't easy to do, sneezing on demand like that."

"It worked, though."

"I swear, listening to the two of you is like watching a tennis match," Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, you should have called me sooner."

"I tried to but she kept hovering."

"Seriously, she was over his shoulder the whole. damned. time."

"I texted you the first chance I got."

Having witnessed Molly's often over-zealous attentiveness to his little brother a couple of times, Mycroft could well believe that. "And where is she now?"

"She stepped out to pick up some groceries, but that was a while ago."

John's eyes went wide, "Ohhhhh NO! She must have found something else!" 

Mycroft held up a reassuring hand, "Relax. Whatever it is, I will deal with it." He turned and stared at the valentine of Chocokitty stickers that surrounded the happy face on the wall, then shook his head, _Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to dissuade Miss Molly Hooper from further tormenting my brother while retaining her value as his ally. Could be tricky._

He was in the kitchen when a happy voice sing-songed "I'm baaaa-aaaack!" inciting panic from the idiots in the sitting room, who tried to hide under each other then tried to hide under the lilo. Molly bustled in and set some bags down, "Sorry I took so long, I went shopping for some more things to cheer you up. I found the cuuuuuuuuuuuuutest little Keroppi plates, wait'll you see..." 

She bustled out again and Mycroft stepped out to peer into the bags. "Keroppi fucking plates!" John moaned from somewhere under the blanket pile.

"..and I found this adorrrrrrrrrable Afro Ken plastic cutlery set, they're so cuuuuuute...Oh!"

"Very kind of you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said in his plummy voice with his cold, thin smile, "But unfortunately, quite unnecessary. I have been released from my duties at work to care for my brother for the remainder of his illness."

"Oh.. er, well.. I could help..."

Mycroft's smile vanished and his voice took on a chilly edge, "Are you implying that I am unable to care for my little brother adequately?"

"Oooo! Ouch!" John whispered.

"Yeah!" Sherlock grinned back, "It's funny when it's happening to someone else."

Molly was still trying, "Er, well, I brought ingredients for supper..."

"Appreciated, I'm sure, but unnecessary. I will be making our Mother's special chicken soup."

"Oh! It's a special recipe? If I could help you make it, I could.."

"Out of the question! It's a secret recipe passed down only to family. If Mummy thought I'd hand out her secret recipes to-" Mycroft sniffed, "-outsiders, I'd never hear the end of it."

"Um.. I thought your Mummy had.. er, passed away..."

"I assure you, that would not stop her."

"It really wouldn't," Sherlock whispered. John winced. 

"Miss Hooper, while your help has been appreciated, it is no longer required. I'm sure you had your own plans for the evening, which, happily, you may now pursue."

"Actually, I..."

" **Thank you** , Miss Hooper. Good night."

"Um... er.. right. Um, good night then. Good night, Sherlock," Molly tried, but only snores answered her. "Awwwww... they're so cute," she turned her soppy smile to Mycroft, only to lose it quickly, "Um.. right. Good night. Um, thank you for taking care of him."

"He is my brother, Miss Hooper. And it's **'them'**." Mycroft closed the door firmly then watched out of the window. "She's gone," he reported, and nearly grinned as the idiots on the floor broke into cheering and applause.

"Our hero!"

"I knew he could do it! I told you, only Mycroft could, you know."

"'Good night, Sherlock,' 'Thanks for taking care of him', what am I, chopped liver??"

"And they say **I'm** rude!" Sherlock huffed.

John poked him with a Tare Panda plushie, "You are, sometimes. Most of the time you're just blunt, I've worked it out. But at least you don't totally forget about me."

"Never!" Sherlock picked up a My Melody plushie by the ears and whapped him lightly, "I keep telling you, I'd be lost without my blogger."

Mycroft shook his head and retreated to the kitchen as the plushie fight escalated. When the laughter slowed down, he called, "Doctor Watson, since you appear to be feeling well enough to move, your assistance would be appreciated."

John shuffled in, dragging a blanket and still carrying the Tare Panda. "Me?" He looked curious as Mycroft set a jar onto the counter in front of him, "That's the secret ingredient?"

"It requires a bit of a search but the result is well worth it."

"You told Molly you only shared the recipe with family?"

Mycroft looked at him with just a hint of a smile, "Indeed."


End file.
